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He opened his umbrella and stepped out onto the graveyard, his freshly-polished shoes immediately tarnished by the wet soil. Shoes, of the finest Italian leather, sourced from distinguished bulls raised on the Sicilian mountainside. Fed only the purest organic feed, of course, imported from the fertile and nitrogen-rich fields of Iceland. Shoes that had been, until now, virginal.
A sleek and narrow vamp that gave his feet an elegant arch; a subtle heel that enhanced his natural height; and lace holes lined with gold – a gentle hint at his refined taste. The leather was the perfect shade to match his Armani suit: 94% wool, 6% polyester. The blazer tight across broad shoulders, tailored to hug his defined waist. His favourite detail, however, was the elusive pinstripes one could only see when cool light hit his body at a specific angle. He wore his blazer unbuttoned to allow the matching waistcoat to further elongate his enticing torso.
Tucked under his waistcoat was his favourite tie: an original Brioni, made of dark grey silk. In delicate, black lines was a tasteful floral design; the flowers to convey himself as sensitive and empathetic, and the stark black silk to emphasise his strength and authority. Even down to his cufflinks – that were gold to match the lace holes in his shoes – every detail of his outfit was meticulously chosen.
Even his hair, slicked back and tightly controlled, did not feature a single strand out of place.
Osiris believed that fashion was a science.
Mud tainted the soles of his shoes, no longer perfect, no longer clean. He would have to throw them out later. It was a shame – they really did fit him well.
Lightning stuck overhead, and thunder was soon to follow. He counted: one second. Two. three. Four. The thunder came, loud over his head, but he didn’t flinch.
Osiris walked among aisles and aisles of graves, stones etched with names and dates that meant nothing to someone like him. He had always found it interesting how so many people could die, and yet his life remained wholly unaffected in any way. It truly exemplified the worthlessness of human life.
One of the graves was freshly dug. It was different from the rest, in that the tombstone was an exquisite statue. A virgin Mary, the holy mother. Like his shoes, the stone was black, carved from sleek obsidian with words painted in gold. Bouquets of white lilies, chrysanthemums, gladioli and hydrangeas. Nut hated the colour white.
In her death, Osiris found himself somewhat affected. She was not as meaningless as the bodies she was buried with.
Amongst the white was a ragged figure that laid in the soil. Black sweatshirt, hood drawn over his face, and faded jeans that were more hole than denim. He was completely soaked by the rain, but made no move to get himself off the floor. Clutched in a pale, thin hand, was an uncorked bottle of Richebourg Pinot Noir. Vaguely, Osiris recognised it as one of the bottles that had mysteriously disappeared from the wake.
A vagrant drunkard, wasted on his mother’s grave.
The man flinched when Osiris stood behind him, his umbrella blocking the rain from soaking his clothes further. Slowly, with the grace of a newborn deer, the man raised himself into a sitting position. He turned to face Osiris.
A ghost.
It had to be.
Osiris helped his brother through the door of his luxury penthouse, Seth’s cool arm draped across his shoulders. He was drunk, but not so inebriated that he couldn’t walk on his own. It was Osiris who had insisted.
The door opened to reveal an expansive apartment, the centrepiece of which was a spacious sunken couch: a custom-made Boca do Lobo, off-white eggshell with a signature gold trim. Homely, but tasteful.
Osiris helped his brother navigate the steps to the sunken lounge and coaxed him to sit, his wet clothes dampening the eggshell fabric. Osiris’ fastidious eye twitched, but he forced himself to ignore it. He didn’t want to push his brother away again.
Seth merely curled in on himself. He looked so small amid the ample cushions.
He sniffled, and Osiris stared.
Lightning struck once again, far off in the distance. Rain beat against his wide windows; floor to ceiling, he had an exquisite view of the city below him, to view the ants below him as they scurried about. Oftentimes, Osiris found himself standing in front of the window, wine glass in hand, to catch the desperate sprint of a man on his last warning. It satisfied him to observe those beneath him, as they ran about, to earn in a month what he makes in an hour.
Only the homeless stayed out on the streets in such weather, for they had nowhere else to go.
Seth shivered on the couch, and Osiris took the cue to turn on the fireplace. As much as he loved such expansive glass, it provided poor insulation.
Sacrifices, he supposed.
“I didn’t expect to see you at the funeral,” Osiris said, and it was an honest admission.
Seth curled further into himself on the Boca do Lobo, making himself smaller than he’d ever been. Like he was a child again, at the whims of Osiris’ father. In a quiet voice, Seth mumbled: “She was my mother, too.”
Osiris hummed at that, deep in thought. He had assumed that those bridges had already been burnt. Perhaps he didn’t know his brother as well as he thought – it had been nearly a decade since they last spoke, after all.
The thought soured him.
Seth had always been temperamental, forcing Osiris to walk on eggshells around him. One minute, he was jovial, but at the drop of a dime of the turn of a hat, he’d become irrational, needlessly argumentative for the sake of a fight. He would speak as if he wanted to inflict pain unto the listener, as if he wanted pain inflicted unto him.
Osiris was twenty by the time Seth was born, and was therefore old enough to have observed the ennui that befell their mother; the disinterested way she handed him off to a wet nurse, the apathetic look in her eye as he uttered his first words. He attributed Nut’s lukewarm treatment of her son to the fact that, as much as he looked like her, it was clear from birth that he had not been her husband’s son. And this was a fact that only grew more apparent as Seth got older.
In some ways, Osiris felt great contempt for his late mother. She was the one who ultimately drove Seth away.
“You should have called,” Osiris heard himself saying. His gaze fell over his brother once again, in drenched clothes, drunk on stolen wine and covered in the dirt of his mother’s grave. It was the sight of a man beneath him, not one of his own blood.
And yet, with his crimson hair and pale skin, he looked every part the mother that they had just lost, even in his pitiful state.
“Shut up,” Seth slurred. “And get me some damn wine.”
You’ve had enough damn wine, Osiris thought, the words on the tip of his tongue, but he held himself back. He would not push his brother further away.
Seth shivered on the couch in his wet and soiled clothes, yet the first thing he asked for was more alcohol.
He retreated to the bar behind them, and observed his assortment of liquor. He was rather proud of his collection.
“Any preferences?” he asked.
Seth called out from the couch: “ Fuckin’ strong .”
Osiris rolled his eyes. Amarone, then. Fine, Italian vino.
He reached for the glass, and from behind it fell a small plastic bag that he had forgotten was even there. Inconspicuous white powder.
He brought the bag over with him to the bar where he pulled out two crystalline wine glasses. In each, a serving of vino.
Seth sniffled on the couch.
Osiris shrugged to himself, and tipped the contents of the bag into one of the glasses.
Isis had once told him that he was devoid of all things that make one human, that he was incapable of love.
This, Osiris had always known.
Although, he would argue that it was unfair to say he was incapable of love. He loved his mother and his brother, and he admired his father. He never quite loved Isis, but she was, of course, different.
Before Seth, his mother was a kind and gentle woman. She doted on him, on her husband. She was everything a wife should be. Osiris never resented her.
Likewise, his father was a respectable man. On the rare occasions that Osiris saw him growing up, he was always dressed in an immaculate suit and tie, an aged Gurkha Cigar delicately poised between his lips. He was always accompanied by the smell of tobacco, wore it like a smoky cologne. One thing that Osiris noticed was that his father’s mouth was more often entwined with his cigars than the sweet lips of his own wife.
Osiris’ father never wore the same suit twice.
As a child, he tolerated the company of other children. Sometimes, he even enjoyed watching them scramble over each other for his approval; for even as a child, his peers recognised his inherent superiority. And yet, as they aged, the peers who worshipped the ground beneath his feet gradually became preoccupied with the material pleasures of girls and love and romance, spending their nights entwined with predatory women and drugs and sex. Osiris, however, remained unswayed.
And while he snorted coke off an escort’s cunt in his private jet, his peers sucked cock for crack in urine-stained alleyways.
Isis was… enjoyable, at first. A gorgeous woman with excellent breeding, a tight cunt with decent tits. Tits that were – like all the females within their milieu – fake: large and perky, incapable of sag. Osiris had never been fond of them, had always thought they looked ridiculous, but at least Isis’ implants were reasonable.
His mother was a natural beauty, who did not require any artificial interventions to make herself look decent. This, of course, extended to her breasts, perfect as they were. Ample and soft, healthily sagged not from a lack of care, but more so from the gravity working against their immense weight. To Osiris’ delight, she often wore thin shirts around the house, her nipples proud in the cold air. Oftentimes, even in the winter, Osiris found himself at the thermostat, adjusting the cooling, just to coax them out.
Sometimes, Osiris figured, it must have been on purpose. There was no reason to wear such tight clothes around the house – especially during Seth’s pregnancy, where she became round and full with another man’s seed, and when milk damped the fabric around them. He found himself entranced by the sight of her dampened shirts, entranced by the sight of her thin belly filling out as his brother grew inside of her.
Certainly, Osiris struggled to come up with any other reason as to why she would keep her door slightly ajar when she had company with her.
He admired his father, but there were few things he could never understand about him. He watched as his lonely mother longed for his father during his months-long absences, and felt the violent stirrings of resentment bloom. If it was up to Osiris, Nut would never leave her bedroom, so heavy with his children – so full of his seed – that she wouldn’t be able to walk. She wouldn’t need to, wouldn’t want to: she’d be so satisfied with him, so drunk on his cock, she’d have dedicated her existence to being his brood whore.
Their children would be superior as well, bred from the highest pedigree. The world would thank him for them.
He could please his mother in a way his father never could. He would fuck her through her pregnancy, so hard his brother would feel it, so hard he’d fuck another sibling into her.
Osiris never desired to see Isis grow fat with his child like this, felt ill about the mere concept of fertilising a woman lesser than him. To Osiris, the thought was more immoral than impregnating his own mother. And in the end, that was, perhaps, why Isis eventually sought a child with someone else.
Oh well.
Seth drank the wine, and if he noticed its slightly salty taste, he showed no signs. Osiris sat back and watched him, waiting for it to kick in: the subtle breathlessness, the heave of his chest; the light flush on his cheeks as he leaned his head backwards and revealed the smooth skin of his neck.
Osiris only sat down next to him once Seth looked at him with eyes unfocussed and pupils blown. Full lips parted around whispered words: “I’m… I think I…”
The words trailed off as Osiris placed a gentle kiss on his neck.
Osiris guided his brother to lie on his back, fighting weakly against him as he was undressed.
It was purely out of respect for his father that Osiris never acted on his desire towards Nut.
But it was not an easy feat.
Nut was a forbidden temptation – a line Osiris believed he could never cross. Although now he held no such inhibitions, as a young man in his twenties, he still believed himself to be subject to human morality.
The whores he bought all had red hair and pale skin, but sex with lookalikes was nothing compared to the taboo that teased him back at home.
Whether she pleasured herself alone or with another man, Nut always kept her door open. That was how he found out about her affair with Geb.
Unlike his father, Geb was a pauper. It had initially enraged him to watch her fuck a man of such poor breeding, but as she cried and moaned on his cock, begged for it harder, faster, more –
It was the impure corruption of a woman so holy that evoked a terrible, festering rage inside of him; one that made him tug on his cock with newfound fury as he watched on through the door, and one that gave him satisfaction as he spent his seed on the carpet below him.
In his blissful haze, he imagined himself barging into the bedroom, knocking Geb over the head and killing him instantly. He imagined his mother’s scream of horror as the man inside her fell dead, and then the helpless moans she would cry as Osiris fucked her next to her lifeless amour. She would cry, but clench down on him nonetheless, wetten their sinful conjugation, unable to fight the carnal pleasure of her son’s well-bred cock. This is what she deserved for opening her supple legs for such a beastly man.
He would come inside her, make her cunt cry with his cum, watch it leak out of her as she shuddered with wave after wave of forbidden pleasure.
But unbeknownst to him at the time, Osiris had witnessed the conception of his brother.
His brother, who shared his mother’s face and skin and hair. His brother, who reflected none of the traits of his father. The resemblance was so uncanny that had Osiris not been there, he’d have more easily suspected it to be an immaculate conception.
His brother, born of an impure affair, who was the closest thing he had to Nut.
Seth tried to push him away, but he was weak in his intoxicated state. His body was alight, heightened senses reacting to his touch, and Osiris knew where to pleasure him. He knew what to lick, to rub, to suck, to bite. It was intrinsic, as if they were made for each other.
“ Osiris… ” Seth uttered. “ Don’t… ”
His fingers slid easily into his brother’s hole, which made Osiris wonder, had he done this before? The thought enraged him, and he suddenly needed to know: who else had touched his brother? Who dared to touch what did not belong to them?
Osiris thought about his estranged brother. He had disappeared the moment he turned eighteen, hidden from their family with the bitch he got pregnant. The very same bitch who, as a karmatic twist of fate, killed their mutt of a son, and then herself.
Seth was left with nothing.
What did he do in all these years, while he mourned the loss of his bitch wife and mutt son? With how accustomed Seth was to Osiris’ fingers in his ass, to how he moaned and writhed against his touch, Osiris figured he must have sold his body.
“Whore,” he said, unable to stop the verbal abuse that spewed from his mouth. “You fucking slut. How many people have done this to you? How many cocks have you had?”
Tears fell from Seth’s eyes as he fought for a response, but the molly he gave him had been enough for two. “I–”
Osiris curled his fingers upwards, and Seth cried out. His voice was loud, music to his ears, as tears fell from shut eyes.
Much like that night all those years ago, when he watched as his mother fucked some mutt off the street, Osiris felt himself grow blind with rage. He added a third finger, then a fourth, and Seth’s eyes had flown open as he grasped Osiris’ wrist. He tried to hold him still, to push him out, but Osiris was strong. He scissored his fingers opening them wide. He wanted to ruin his brother, make him loose and wet and unfuckable.
“Osiris!” Seth cried as he finally added his thumb, his lax hand now fucking him. “Please, I–”
He cut himself off with a moan, because of course he liked it. Mouths could lie, but what Seth couldn’t fake was the way his greedy rim gripped his hand as he thrust in and out. He couldn’t fake the tightness of his hole, the stretch of his skin, the intrinsic wetness that came from his cock, his skin, his hole. As if he had a cunt that was made to be fucked.
He was tempted to curl his fingers, to form a fist and fuck his brother with it. And he wanted to, to hurt him, ruin him, make him his, but Osiris felt a distinctive heat form in his stomach – one he hadn’t felt in a few years, now, even with the whores and drugs and money he threw at them just to feel something again.
For the first time in years, Osiris was hard.
He retracted his fist, and his brother sobbed at the sudden emptiness within him. His rim was red, angry and swollen, and on Osiris’ hand was the gentle smearing of blood. But he didn’t care.
Seth sobbed at the sound of his pants as he unzipped them, for he knew what would come next. To be molested by his brother was one thing, but to be violated – to be raped – by him was a line he never thought could be crossed.
Seth’s hole was loose around his cock, and Osiris slapped his ass and told him to clench. Seth complied, because if his brother could do something so foul – so inhumane to his own flesh and blood, what else was he capable of?
The clenching of his walls helped a bit, but as Osiris fucked him, it was not the friction that he found most pleasurable.
It was the sight of his brother, red faced and crying, as he begged for him to stop; cock hard despite the pain, for his nerves were alight. He looked down at his brother, pinning his hands over his head, and imagined the jiggle of ample breasts in time with his thrusts. Blood, sweat and cum eased the glide of his cock inside Seth, and he pretended it was the self-lubrication of a greedy cunt. Pubes as red as the hair on his head, even naked, Seth looked exactly like Nut.
Seth came, completely untouched, and Osiris felt himself become complete. He was there during Seth’s conception, there for his birth, and now, he had caused his demise.
But Osiris was far from done.
In his later years, Osiris felt himself harder to please. A pale body was no longer sufficient enough for him: he needed his mother – his brother – beaten black and blue. Bloody and limp beneath him, tainted with blood as red as their hair. As he panted over his brother, the near-irresistable urge to place his hands on his neck and strangle him until the life drained from his eyes – to kill him, and then fuck the corpse.
For Osiris, such odious thoughts were not new.
As Osiris imagined the cold sensation of Seth’s deceased walls, he felt his own orgasm build. And yet, it would never come.
For he could never hurt his brother so.
There was the thrill of the kill, the wet splatter of blood on his skin. The whore’s body twitched, and he swung his axe once more.
Seth cried behind him, terrified. But he could not move.
Three bodies: hair as red as their blood that stained the floor. Or, would have stained the floor, but he coated his kitchen with plastic.
He approached Seth, who cowered on the floor in front of him. His body was perfect, porcelain white, like a doll, a trophy for display.
Osiris shed his raincoat and dragged Seth by his hair into the middle of the carnage. He fought back, because nice things never came easy, but it was not enough.
Osiris laid him down in the middle of the whores’ blood, dirty red staining his perfect skin, before he slid easily into his brother – because they were made for each other.
Once Seth woke up after their first time, he had tried to run, but when he realised the doors were locked, he barricaded himself in the kitchen. He grabbed a knife from the kitchen and held it to his chest, threatened to kill himself if Osiris came near. But his reaction time was still sloppy from the wine the night before, and Osiris was strong, fast, perfect.
Seth had cried and called him inhuman. As if that was an insult.
For Osiris was inhuman: his body was merely a vessel for what lay beneath the skin. He was an ancient, powerful being; a God worthy of worship.
He flipped Seth’s body around, easily overpowered in his drugged state, and pressed his face further into the blood. He bathed Seth in it, baptised him in the dirty blood of nameless whores who looked just like him.
I love you, the creature said. I could never hurt you. See what I do to protect you?
Hand on the cold breast of a whore, Osiris came inside his brother. His hands wrapped around his torso, to the cock that had wet itself, to the base of his brother’s stomach. To the womb that didn’t exist, but what did the laws of nature mean to a God like him?
He was a God of love, of life; his seed, a magical ichor. It didn’t matter if this pregnancy didn’t take, for he had his whole immortal life ahead of him. Seth would bear his child.